


The Garment Bag

by TheBlackestFrost



Series: Life in Stark Tower [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Clothing Porn, F/M, Family, Smut to come (pardon the pun), Suit!porn, life in stark tower
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 21:12:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1124456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBlackestFrost/pseuds/TheBlackestFrost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After all, comfort is such a subjective thing. </p>
<p>Still, she never thought she'd see him...wearing that. </p>
<p>BlackFrost, T/J, C/D</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Garment Bag

**Author's Note:**

> Seems to be a series of Life in Stark Tower one shots...possibly.

Natasha fluffed her hair, watching the numbers illuminate as the elevator climbed.

It had been Tony who, after dealing with his own anxieties and nearly losing Pepper, decided that Stark Tower would be their new headquarters. If anybody believed it was due to the increased security measures he’d installed around the place they were too polite to say. He’d done it with his usual style, in this case buying all their current apartments and evicting them.

Strangely enough, no one had complained.

She had to hand it to him, he’d done an amazing job of ensuring each Avenger had their own level of the Tower, perfectly furbished in impeccable style. Something she suspected had more to do with the strawberry blonde than the smirking man who had shown them around with a flourish.

Floors 30 and 31 belonged to Bruce and Steve, the former a quiet haven of internal fountains and a private elevator to the R&D floors. Quiet greens of moss and forest blended beautifully with peaceful cream and rich mahogany furniture. A safe haven for the mind, now draped in a few choice pieces from Calcutta and Nepal.

Steve’s floor was decorated so simply Natasha had wondered if it indicated a vendetta, the plain carpets and wood pieces looking oddly stark throughout the floor. That had been before she saw the way Tony brought Steve a new piece of technology every few days, allowing the Captain to fill his space with the new world as necessary.

Floors 33-35 belonged to herself, Thor and Clint, the latter enjoying the second highest available position from which to ‘perch’, as Tony had called it. Thor’s floor had been left intentionally simple, which Jane had decided meant it was free for the taking. The scientist preferred to cover surfaces with reference books over flowers, but she had commissioned an enormous bed and decadently deep claw foot tub that would have made Natasha green with envy if not for her own bathroom. If the demi-god had any issues he wasn’t showing them, though Natasha suspected that had more to do with the swollen stomach of his miniscule paramour than anything else.

When Clint had pointed out that Darcy wasn’t going anywhere near his floor’s decorations Natasha had been kind enough not to laugh, the brunette’s eyes flashing and a small smirk tweaking at her cheeks.

Levels 36-38 were Tony and Pepper’s, one of which Natasha knew was where Pepper made Tony sleep on those nights he was annoying her too much. Pepper’s taste, Natasha found, was superb. Gorgeously simple creams, whites and black, marble counter tops and a shower with multiple jets that could likely have fit all of them. The walls were hung with art from Pepper’s private collection, and she’d ensured Tony’s area was well reinforced to withstand his late night hair brained scheming.

At the top was Floor 40, consisting of an enormous conference room well equipped with screens, projectors and holograph generators for all manner of planning.

When Phil had first walked in his face had been like Christmas.

His face when they had used the enormous table to serve Thanksgiving dinner had been less impressed.

When Thor had spilled gravy on the surface she was sure she’d seen Phil’s eyes tear up.

Below Level 30 were the labs, meeting rooms, swimming pools, gymnasiums, med bays, kitchens, cinema complexes and (if Clint was to be believed) strip clubs all designed to allow Stark Tower to function as a captain of industry.

But from 30 upwards was theirs, and theirs alone.

Natasha had never been attached to a location before. She saw little value in focusing overmuch on somewhere designed to permit sleep and washing, perhaps the occasional meal. Aside from a few safe houses even SHIELD didn’t know about, she had kept a sparse apartment packed with little but a bug out bag and supplies. Her wardrobe had occupied a private warehouse, a necessary expenditure that ensured she could bail quickly without losing vital aspects of her work.

She’d never felt a need to enjoy an actual home.

Until now.

It was no secret that Natasha’s floors were currently off limits to anyone but Pepper. It wasn’t personal. Bruce had been the first one to see Natasha’s face when Tony presented her with the bare level, telling her to do as she wanted. Bruce had been the one to see something unusually bright flash over the Black Widow’s face as she took in the security, the stability of the building, the meaning of being given a place like this.

She’d shot him a look that held his tongue, but she assumed he’d spoken to the team. Which would explain why JARVIS was used to request her presence.

They knew she needed time to settle and adjust to having a web all of her own.

Floor 32 was what Tony had amusingly referred to as the ‘Family Floor’. Large communal kitchen, enormous living room furnished with a television big enough that Mario Kart was an experience not unlike real driving, and a bar so well stocked Natasha would never run out of vodka.

She liked the Family Floor.

Most of the time.

Currently, not so much.

She was used to boys. Jane spent most of her days pushing Bruce’s hospitality in the various labs, Pepper was too busy doing real work the majority of the time, and Darcy had actual classes to attend (and a real life, accordin. Which meant that Natasha, when not on a mission, spent a good deal of time around her male counterparts.

Superheroes they may be, but boys they still were.

The assignment had been simple enough, and she’d actually enjoyed the ability to attend the theatre without ending the night in bloodshed. When information was your prime commodity your methods of extraction could sometimes be…sticky. Though she had exactly zero issue with spilling various bodily fluids in her line of work, she was pleased to avoid ruining the outfit.

The black pencil dress did wonderfully sinful things to her curves, framing her chest magnificently and turning her waist miniscule. Her hair, once more long and dark red, was twisted in an elegant chignon, her black Louboutin pumps clacking satisfyingly against the tiled floor as her red lips twisted in a smile.

She felt like a million bucks.

Upon later reflection she felt that this may have contributed, somewhat, to the events that followed.

As the elevator doors opened onto the Family Floor she was immediately hit with the knowledge that they were all extremely drunk. If the stench of a million different kinds of alcohol hadn’t given it away, the raucous cries of “TASHA!” would have. The huge living area seemed much smaller with Steve slouched over the couch, obviously attempting to test just how much he could drink before his enhanced metabolism could process it. Bruce had obviously disappeared early in the piece, always quick to avoid Tony’s curiosity regarding Hulk alcohol tolerance.

Which left Tony, Clint, Thor and…Loki.

Following his supposed death and subsequent brief but apparently enjoyable stint on the throne, Loki had been exiled from Asgard. Odin had been set to have the Trickster executed, but Thor had pled for his life, citing their mother. Odin, unable to argue against his favoured son, and far too irritated at being fooled by his younger once more, had banished them both. Neither man was fool enough to think that Frigga’s memory was not their saving grace in this respect.

If Jane’s stomach was any indication, Thor did not currently mind. Dr Foster had told Natasha in confidence that it was unlikely Thor’s exile would last, not while he still represented such a fine potential king, and Natasha had wondered who had passed on the information.

She suspected the culprit an ex-king himself.

Still, it hadn’t been a lie. Thor had been embracing Midgard, forging stronger ties than the realms had previously seen, and working off-World with the Warriors 3 and Lady Sith to ensure all 9 realms were beginning to experience a level of harmony Odin himself couldn’t deny. Regardless of his current disinterest in ruling, Thor was born to be a king, and would likely ascend when Odin decided his ability overtook his loyalty to his brother.

In the meantime, both demi-gods were taking up her Family Floor.

Loki’s presence had made all Avengers uneasy, and the Trickster had largely stuck to his brother’s floor since he’d arrived a month ago. He’d appeared, hands held upwards and armour gleaming, in the middle of a conference with Fury. Despite the number of weapons trained on him he’d managed to convince Fury that his particular skill set and knowledge of Thanos was worth something, and damn if the Director hadn’t agreed. Depsite Clint and Tony’s protestations, Loki was being given a chance to prove himself worth of being allowed to live, and so far had proved relatively valuable.

Which had annoyed some of them no end.

And Thor, after giving his brother a whack with Mlojnir that left the Trickster twinging whenever he saw a hammer, had embraced the company. It was no secret that he was still resentful towards his father, and though he would never take Loki’s darker paths, his brother’s presence acted as a balm, a reassurance, a form of strange comfort…

“Really, brother, if you were any slower on that you’d be rotting on the ground after being expelled by a Bilgesnipe.”

…an annoyance unlike any other.

“Cease your infernal chatter so I may dispatch of this foe!”

Mario Kart had never seemed so dramatic.

“Hey, maybe the loser gets to remind Fury about the photocopier incident at the Christmas party,” Tony said, his voice smug.

Clint sighed. “We’re not getting rid of him that easily.”

“Had I feelings I believe they would have been hurt,” Loki’s cultured voice was slurred, like the other men’s, and Natasha wondered just how much alcohol it took to fell a god.

Loki, for all the smirking snark and dry witticisms, was not leaving. Natasha wasn’t even sure he could; his exile left him intact, but unable to re-enter their home, and Thor had pointed out that removing his magic would have been no less difficult than removing his blood.

Clint had followed this with something pithy and to the point, a sentiment Thor mentioned Odin shared. Natasha had watched the exchange, all occurring over the conference table when Loki had first appeared, with careful eyes. At the mention of his father she saw him wince, and she wondered why, of 8 realms he had to explore, he was coming here.

Later, as she watched Fury accept Loki’s offer of consultation as penance, she thought she saw something. A brief moment, an exhalation from Thor, a second of eyes meeting and both men exhibiting genuine relief. It was gone before it even began, but it had been there.

And that had been enough for Natasha, at least for now.

Which didn’t make him any easier to be around.

She’d simply avoided him, preferring to stick to her own floor, politely disengaging from situations when he was around. It wasn’t fear, or even anger; Clint was a big boy, and had expressed his…distaste for the demi-god’s presence in his own subtle way.

She smirked at the memory of Loki having to grow back an eyeball.

No, she simply avoided him because she had little time for his word games or man pain, and preferred to watch rather than participate. Something she knew drove him endlessly insane.

Tonight, however, she wanted to relax. Wanted to enjoy the company of her teammates and be complimented on her outfit and be distracted by beating Tony at Mario Kart and enjoying his subsequent sulking.

She couldn’t see them from where they were facing the oversized screen, but she hummed a hello when their greeting echoed through the room. She headed to the bar, pouring herself a glass of vodka straight from the freezer, and slipping next to Steve on the couch.

The Captain shot her a tired but clear eyed smile, and she felt a pang of pity.

“Still sober, huh?”

He nodded, grinning ruefully. “One of these days I’ll do it.”

She smiled kindly. “Looking forward to it.”

She shifted slightly, turning to where Clint and Thor were currently alternating between hurling abuse at Loki and Tony. Clint had obviously enjoyed a lazy day, clad in nothing but his boxers and sweatshirt, and she stifled at laugh at her friend. Tony had spent the day in meetings with Pepper (which is likely when he schemed up the idea for a Mario Kart drinking game, as evidenced by the myriad of shot glasses both strewn and currently lined up). His suit was well rumpled, expensive jacket thrown over a chair and tie littered somewhere on the floor.

Thor’s ongoing appreciation for what Clint referred to as “Lumberjack Chic” continued, though the demi-god had left his shirt over the chair, a black tank showing off over sized muscles. With his long hair tied in a knot at the base of his neck he looked more like a teen heartthrob than god of thunder, and Natasha thought for a moment how much funnier it would be if they were all in matching jammies, naughty school boys revelling in their rebellion.

And Loki-

She paused.

He wore suits. That was his thing. His brother’s issues with Midgardian fashion aside, Loki was nothing if not capable of assimilation. Sharp eyes had rapidly picked up on the status symbols various fashion created, and locked on to the sleek, elegant style of a perfectly tailored suit.

She hated him for that.

All rangy height, lean lines, clean cuts and impossibly well-tailored materials. Dolce & Gabbana, Giorgio Armani, Oxxford, Ralph Lauren; the sharpest, cleanest lines she’d ever seen on a man. She’d witnessed the occasional vicuna wool Brioni, seen one or two Canali’s with pin strips so fine they were more of a suggestion than thread adjustment. Finely woven wool, the highest thread counts available on the market, designed for fingers to run over the lapels while mouths smirked and eyes darkened. She’d even seen him in a Kiton, pristine qiviuk wool from the Arctic mustox perfectly blended with the most subtle pashmina.

Single breasted and tailored so tightly it became impossible to tell where he ended and the material began, fluid movements in ever subtle adjustment of silk tie, quick flick of imagined dust of the crispest white shirts known to man. Shirts in pale blue accentuated icy eyes, while deep purples with contrasting ties brought out the more dominant green. Long legs encased in cashmere wool, taut neck covered with the occasional highlander wool scarf (microns so tiny they become but a whisper).

Sometimes a stunningly tailored suit jacket was replaced with a black leather one that only served to highlight the broad shoulders and lean waist even further.

She’d watched him lounge around the conference table, stride through New York, smirk over breakfast while wearing a suit like a second skin. Once she saw him without a jacket, shirtsleeves rolled, and allowed herself the briefest moment of approval for the strong forearms exposed.

She has never seen him any more casual than that.

Until now.

She supposed it wasn’t a surprise. He had to sleep, like anyone, and she knew he occasionally sparred with Thor or Steve to remain limber.

But she still wasn’t prepared for the sight of Loki, God of Mischief and general threat to anyone with eyes and a taste for suits, in sweat pants.


End file.
